And Now, Open Your Eyes
by Pale Treasures
Summary: What would have happened if Will had lived. Set around 5x15. Will/Alicia. AU. One Shot.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own The Good Wife; I'm only borrowing its characters.

**Rating: **K+

* * *

**And Now, Open Your Eyes**

"… _Alicia? There's something I need to tell you. It's… about Will."_

She gripped the phone tighter. Something in her breathing shifted. "Kalinda, what is it?"

She failed to hear Kalinda's voice again for a long time, and when she did, it sounded uncommonly distressed, lost. The first tendrils of panic unfurled inside her. The effort of pushing out a breath began to hurt. She wanted to ask what was wrong, what had happened, but found herself unable to.

"_It's… there was a shooting in the courthouse. Will was caught in the crossfire. He…"_

"What?" she whispered. Kalinda's voice grew dimmer as the senseless words began to arrange themselves into a terrible shape.

"_Will was shot, Alicia. I'm in the hospital right now, with Diane. It doesn't… it doesn't look good. He's in surgery now."_

She tried to grasp the meaning of Kalinda's words; she made a desperate effort to compel some much needed determination to translate into a reply, a decision. She managed nothing; there was only her death-grip grip on the phone, her muteness, Eli's shocked, grief-stricken face. The crude jokes, the ripple of voices and laughter ebbing and flowing around the room faded into silence, a silence that rushed unlimited and colorless in her ears, stretching all around her, consuming everything else.

There was only her and the fading echo of Kalinda's words. And the image of Will, one she struggled to put together, for it was beyond any reality she comprehended or accepted; Will, alone, in an unfathomable position, in intolerable danger.

"But I just saw him yesterday," she did not notice at first that she had actually whispered the words, and, to her alarm, tears rushed to her throat. Whatever there was still standing inside her, the little self-control she maintained, threatened to crumble entirely.

She could not recall Kalinda's reply, if there was one at all. Then, to her incredulous despair, she heard her name being called. She looked toward the stage doubtfully, assessing if it was even worth it or possible to give the speech a try, but Eli stepped before her.

"Go. You're in no condition to do this. I'll handle it."

She opened her mouth, but found no words to respond, and above all no desire to contradict him. Once she started to walk away, something foreign took hold of her. She stumbled in her effort to rush, to move faster still, to waste no time whatsoever, because, to her terror, a part of her consciousness was aware of the meaning of every second, and what might happen if she dawdled. _What if I get there and he's… _She shook her head violently to scatter the thought. She could not conceive such a possibility. It was an blasphemous thing to even entertain it, to believe for a moment that it might occur.

Maybe if she got there in time, he wouldn't slip away from her. Maybe he'd stay and fight. He didn't need her for that, he'd never had, but it might help. Yes – she was only too aware of what she meant to him, and she knew, that it _would_ help. She clung to that notion hopefully, disregarding its almost childish quality. She would not worry about childishness today. Not today. If being childish helped, then she would gladly forfeit her pride, her awareness of reality, her fear of being robbed of her hope in spite of hoping so fully. There would be no protective, distrusting, grown-up walls, only the exposure of her aching, pleading heart.

For once, in all her skepticism, she was religious. She was willing to strip herself bare, to give everything up, for her belief. There was something heady to the entire lack of concern about herself in her despair for what she begged for to come true. She was nothing, mere particles scattered in the wind, and only someone else mattered. Broken, indistinct promises swam in her mind, the words unraveling almost as soon as she thought them. Her voice inside her head earnestly panted every formless word. _I'll do anything… as long as Will… if only he doesn't die… whatever it takes…_

It was only her fervent hope that kept her from sobbing disconsolately at the unforgettable reminder that Will was in danger, and from screaming whenever traffic slowed her progress.

Once she was standing before the hospital's bleak facade, there was one moment of panic – of sheer terror of what she might find once she got in there – before she bolted in breathlessly, emboldened by the simple desire to see him, regardless of the possibility that it might be already too late for that. Amidst her panic there was a strange joy, an almost painful happiness that the distance had been shortened, and again the hope that their proximity might improve things. If her presence could make a difference about persuading Will's lungs to keep breathing, if her being there convinced his blood to stay warm and continue to curl down his veins, then… then…

Almost as soon as she was inside, she bumped into Kalinda. They stared at each other for barely a second before starting precipitately into a tight, hungry embrace. Kalinda clung to her with a desperation that was thoroughly unfamiliar, and which she would have wondered at in different circumstances. She could feel the warmth of the other woman's skin, all her bones and angles pressing into her. Never had Kalinda seemed more human to her, and if that was somewhat frightening – if Kalinda could fall apart, then what to say of all of them? – it was also greatly reassuring.

When she pulled back, she realized the tears were burning in her throat and nose, now, demanding to be unleashed, and perilously blurring her vision. She blinked and made a discreet attempt to wipe her eyes.

"How is he?" her voice was husky, fearful again as she voiced what she had only been contemplating so far.

"He just got out of the OR. He's stable now, or so the doctors say." Kalinda attempted a feeble smile. "He's still unconscious, but Diane's with him. I can take you there, if you like."

She did not feel herself nodding assent, but she must have done so, for she saw Kalinda walk ahead of her and felt herself following. They made their way across a labyrinth of corridors – or so it felt like to her – until they reached their destination. She saw them before she had fully approached them. Diane stood beside Will's bed in a little, otherwise empty room, staring down at the insensible figure of her friend. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and her glasses hung limply from her fingers. Eyeliner and mascara were faintly smudged around her red-rimmed eyes.

"Alicia." Diane's voice, too, was husky and low, worn by crying. In spite of her anguish she managed to find a sense of genuine compassion for Diane, and was glad to squeeze back her hands as Diane reached out for hers and held them close to her chest. "I'm glad you're here."

"How is he?" she whispered, daring only the briefest of glances toward the bed.

"Better now. The doctors don't want to appear too optimistic, but… he's better now than he was when he got here. He might make a full recovery." Diane smiled for the first time; it was a judicious smile, the one of someone who dares not expect too much after the advice of those more qualified for the appraisal of the situation; and yet her eyes, for a moment, lit up with hope.

"Could I… could I be alone with him for a minute?" After everything, she still managed to be surprised that she'd been brave enough to ask.

Diane nodded and gave her a fleeting smile. "Of course." She gave Kalinda a brief, meaningful look; the latter smiled at her sympathetically before leaving the room along with Diane.

Alone. Her heart quivered in her chest, she wasn't sure whether with emotion at this longed-for moment or from a sheer, overwhelming feeling that she might be tempting definitive loss. As if her presence might not help, after all, but only accelerate the unthinkable.

This time, she looked at him and let her gaze linger. She had not permitted herself to imagine what he might look like – she had genuinely _not known_ what to expect, even if she'd tried to imagine anything – and she was not prepared for what she saw. His pallor, broken only by a smudge of color so faint it might as well be inexistent, the sheer vulnerability of him, caused the tears to break free at last. A loud, anguished sob tore itself from her throat, and she quickly clapped a hand to her mouth to prevent any more to follow. As her tears blurred the room and Will himself, erasing all detail, it was easy to imagine him lying as though already dead.

She sniffled, wiped her eyes and cheeks and, with slow, determined steps, chanced to come closer. She stared down at him, compassionate, sorrowful affection working at her face by degrees. She held out a hand and it hovered over his naked chest, unsure where to touch him, afraid she might hurt him. Will, who had taken the world by storm so very often, defeated by nothing, was frail and childlike as he lay like this, swallowed by tubes and machinery, swaddled in a patchwork of snowy gauze.

With the greatest gentleness she could muster, she touched his chest. She ran a finger gingerly across his pale cheek. Then, she leaned over him, so that her lips were next to his ear, and her voice instinctively softened, becoming tender and coaxing. "Will," she whispered, calling to him. "Will. It's me." She thought of saying her name, but disregarded the idea. He wouldn't need that. He would know. "It's me, Will."

Her fears were washed away in the swelling of unmitigated, unchecked fondness, in that breathless tenderness she had managed to keep at arm's length for so long. How had she been able to not feel it when it was already so alive and burning in him? Now that she stared down at him like this, with the possibility of losing him still hovering a hair's breadth away from materialization, she could no longer restrain anything, or question the progress and truth of her feelings. They broke free, full-fledged and uninhibited, and it only brought her relief. For a moment, there was no room for fear, because fear paled in the face of what she now knew.

She found a chair and pulled it up beside him, sitting down and lovingly grasping his much larger hand, cupping it between both of her own. She was willing to sit there for as long as it was allowed her, for as long as it took for Will to wake up or even if he never did, when she caught sight of a faint fluttering of his eyelids. She frowned and, heart skipping a beat, leaned in to hungrily take a closer look.

His eyelids trembled again and, tentatively, he began to open his eyes. His gaze swung around the room, confused at first, then attempting to focus. He blinked, closed his eyes and opened them again. She had been watching him, breathless, his hand clasped between hers. When, feeling the unexpected touch, it twitched, and his head turned so that his eyes could meet hers, her heart began to pound.

She smiled tremulously, trying to keep the tears at bay once more. "Hi," she whispered.

He blinked again, but, to her joy, it didn't take him long to place her features. And then he smiled. "Hi."

She could say nothing for a moment, only squeeze his hand with an almost vice-like grip, feeling an ecstasy so fierce it was almost an ache swoop down on her, freezing her faculties.

"What happened? Where am I?" He frowned as he groped his bandaged chest, and winced faintly.

"You were shot," she tried to speak calmly, but the words caught in her throat. "You're in the hospital. You've just gone out of surgery."

Realization dawned on his face. "The courthouse… Jeffrey…"

"Yes."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know. I came as soon as I could."

Something in his face changed as he took in her face more closely. Another smile began to tug at his lips, reaching his eyes, giving them the shadow of a twinkle, a suggestion of times of old. "How long have you been here?"

"Not long. Kalinda and Diane are here too. They're so worried about you. They'll want to know you woke up." Reluctantly, but still determined to do the only thing that was right given the current circumstances, she began to get up. His hand fastened around her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who was still so drowsy.

"No. Stay."

She could not refuse. Silently, she sat back down. His hand remained inside hers.

"I'm glad you're here."

"I couldn't _not_ come," she whispered.

"Were you worried too?" He broke into a good-natured smile, but his voice was soft and earnest.

"Yes." Unconsciously, she held his hand harder. "I was. I was so afraid." Her voice began to crack.

"I feel fine. I might just try a basketball game later on, if they let me out of here," he joked.

She chuckled, in spite of her oncoming tears. "I don't think that would be the wisest move," she countered with a smile. She stared down at her lap, blinking to keep the tears at bay. It might not do her much good; something told her he had noticed them.

"Alicia." She looked up. "I really _am_… glad you're here."

"You know you'd never need to ask."

Something in his mien shifted again. "Why did you come?" he asked very quietly.

Something caught in her throat again. _Tell him. _She wanted to, but suddenly, it no longer seemed so simple. She felt a ridiculous, school-girl, perfectionist need to arrange every word correctly, to make sure her thoughts and the reasoning behind them were understood. She glanced at Will, not without dread. Regardless of how much her feelings had changed, she would not lie to herself and deny that there had been a time where he hadn't sparked all these thoughts, this anxiety. She'd needed what he offered, and that had been uncomplicated and blissful in its unorthodoxy. The happiness she would find with him from now on would be, by necessity, of a different kind. But she couldn't bring herself to miss the times when Will had been merely a lover, a heart filled to overflowing with need and love for even the mere thought of her. Things had been easier when her own heart had been empty. A heart devoid of affection for the loving party relishes their attentions more; it appreciates their love more deeply, somehow. A feverish brain, addled by infatuation, only grasps the idea of love, and although it certainly delights in it, is unable to perceive it clearly. And there was, of course, the benefit of not being shackled by feelings. It was so much easier, and agreeable, to interact with the other person free from cares about their fate, about their feelings, to go to sleep with an easy heart at night. It was selfish, and she had deeply relished that selfishness for a time; she had indulged in it so little for seemingly all her life.

But returning someone's love sharpened the details that had gone unseen or blurry, and truly, everything else, suffused them with deeper color, with a vitality she could scarcely recall from old times. It sent warmth and purpose into the deepest recesses of the heart, into parts of it you were unaware could recognize emotion, let alone that you even possessed them. Right now, after many years of deliberation and straightforward pleasure, she found herself quite ready to seize those brighter, livelier details, and the pain that came with them, and all the following consequences. She found herself consciously bidding goodbye to all the past simplicity; making this choice compelled her to that. Because doing this was better than having nothing, because self-seeking gratification and feeling flattered were no longer enough. Will had been dear to her before all this; she couldn't recall precisely the moment when his love had conjured hers, but now she knew that it had, that it was impossible to doubt that or to mistake it for something else.

"Because it was the only thing I could do." She paused. "Thinking you might…" She swallowed and dutifully recommenced. "That something might happen to you…"

"There is something I've been trying to tell you," Will interjected, his voice unaltered. "I called you on a break during trial, but had to go back to court before I could send you the whole thing. You didn't see that."

Surprise mildly altered her features. "No, I didn't."

Will paused. "Well, things _haven't_ exactly been going according to plan today," he acknowledged with a smile. She felt admiration and a touch of un-malicious envy at how defeat or being sidetracked hardly ever made Will lose his easy manner. She smiled too. She hoped that was enough to encourage him to speak further. Her heart was throbbing again, and the impossible anticipation she felt – all that hope she had been entertaining in the drive here, now turned toward a different purpose – made her think she might not recover if it proved itself misplaced.

"Well," he considered, not quite convincingly, "maybe it can wait."

"Tell me."

For a split second, she feared they might be going back to what they'd been after she'd left Lockhart Gardner, that, if not outward animosity, an awkwardness might grow between them and keep them from having the honest conversation she felt both were trying to begin. It was only after considering this that she realized how happy, how relieved, she had been by the return to their old way of interacting right after he had woken up. The pettiness, the wounded feelings, had scattered as though they'd never been, and they had seamlessly returned to what had been the only truth between them, this way, only partially allowed but the only one there was, of being frank with each other.

He looked up at her, surprised by the quiet resolve in her tone. Then, a similar determination settled in his eyes. He gave the smallest of nods. "Okay."

The beginning of the scene felt familiar; something she had seen multiple times before, in court or during a personal conversation with him. It almost dispelled her nervousness. Only it was impossible to forget that this would be no ordinary exchange.

"Alicia, I've been meaning to say this for a while, and I would have told you eventually. I want you to know that. But… _this_ happening, it made me realize just how idiotic it would be to wait any longer, to tell myself I'll do it some other day. I've waited for a long time; at times something kept me from saying it, at others I just couldn't do it, even though I wanted to. I always fell back on the same excuse; I'd fool myself into thinking that if I'd done it now, it might have gone wrong, but if I do it on some other day, it might actually turn out okay. But now I don't care if it doesn't turn out okay. I want you to know this, and I want to say it."

She held his gaze silently, her heart throbbing in her throat. She could no longer feel his hand between hers, any contact of the external world – of anything in it – brushing against her flesh reminding her that she was still alive. And yet, her every nerve throbbed with anticipation, with life, it bubbled and spilled with something so raw it made her think that maybe she hadn't been living _before_.

She knew what he would say; at least, she thought she partially knew. The possibility that she might be wrong was so faint, when contrasted against her intuition, that she decided not to entertain it, to keep it in check, hovering in the background. However, she wasn't nearly so confident in herself that she would be able, or even want, to dismiss it completely. It seemed like a precarious time to be overly self-assured.

Still, her heart pounded in anticipation, and her mind was filled with her unspoken hopes.

"I don't want us to be _this_ anymore," he resumed, abruptly, it seemed, to her. The words rung in her ears with a touch of the unbelievable, echoing long after he'd said them. "I don't want us to act like we don't know each other. _I_ don't want that. I've had enough, Alicia – all these years trying to act like I didn't want you, like I didn't want us to be together, like I didn't want you to choose _me_ – when I want all those things, more than anything else I've ever wanted." She held her breath, staring at him in awe. "I don't want to act like I don't love you. I don't want to have to keep that inside anymore. I love you – and I want to be with you, always. Just you. I won't hide this for your husband's sake, or for anyone else's. I'll do it for you, if you ask me to – if you can tell me you don't love me and don't want to be with me." He held her gaze steadily, with a saddened solemnity. "Can you do that? Is that what you feel?"

Her thoughts, every effort she had ever made at propriety, however reluctant, at trying to break free from all that he meant to her, clamored loudly in her mind and then receded, losing its loudness, retreating like a wave that moves back from the shore to melt back into the pool of the sea, fading within it. She knew, through that, that she had made a decision before even uttering a word.

"No," she whispered, her voice unexpectedly husky, her throat parched. "I can't do that."

Something opened in his face; she saw disbelief, hope, made bigger than what they were, turned into something so much more extraordinary because they were Will's, because they were a further glimpse into the steadfastness of his feelings toward her.

"I won't ask you to do that," she continued, barely audible had it not been for the absolute silence in the room, "because I would be lying if I did, and I don't want to lie anymore, either."

His cautious hope had turned into full-blown hunger. He stared at her, and in her corresponding eagerness, she felt she would become tongue-tied, stammer out the words incorrectly, fail to let him know exactly how she felt. Although, she was starting to believe, maybe that had always been impossible to begin with.

"I love you too," she whispered. "And I'm sorry."

"What for?" he whispered back, and her familiarity with the way he spoke to her helped her detect a reassuring quality to his steady voice, a liquid, intimate tenderness.

"For not having done something about it sooner. For letting you think that I didn't, when I already did."

A soft smile worked at the corners of his lips. His eyes softened too.

"I'm sorry that it took me this long. That I couldn't find my courage when I should have."

His hands gently gathered hers; the comforting touch was his, now. She looked up at him through the growing mist of her tears. For a long moment, they did not speak again; there was only Will's smile, widening by degrees the longer he stared at her, and her hands so lovingly cradled in his. Gingerly, she lifted them up, brushing her lips against his hands with effortless affection and reverence.

"It's okay." His hand slightly left her grasp to touch her face. When she looked at him, he was still smiling, an unfamiliar happiness sparkling in his eyes. No longer was he like a man who had just faced death; his color had returned, and he seemed suddenly too healthy, too strong for the confines of that room. "Now it doesn't matter anymore."

She smiled a little, her eyes meeting his with a hopeful hunger. It was this moment, more than any other, that told her he would be alright; that he wouldn't succumb, that he wouldn't get worse, not after her words, not after what they'd just shared. The glow he radiated would not be snuffed out so easily. He was bigger than himself, bigger than what he'd used to be; anything that had ever been wielded as a weapon to hurt him or kill him would fail to so much as touch him now.

He saw her stand up slightly, and his hold instantly tightened on her hands. "Don't go."

She smiled softly. "I won't."

"How long can you stay?"

Her smile widened a fraction. "As long as you want me to."

His smile held a note of recognizable mischievousness. "I don't want you go at all."

"Then I won't." She smiled back playfully, but soon sobered, the underlying significance of her words outweighing the light-heartedness. "I won't. I'll stay with you."

His smile dimmed too as an adoration she had, unbeknownst to herself, only ever seen toned down until then flared fully in his gaze. Her heart seized in her chest, and she gripped his hands tighter in her own, her thumb stealing out to gently stroke his scraped knuckles.

Will lay back against his pillows and took a deep, contented breath, closing his eyes for a moment. Her heart beat gratefully as she saw him, in awe at the once commonplace marvel that was watching him move, breathe, seeing the minute changes in his expression. All of that could have been lost so easily. Her soul had not yet fully expelled the fear she had felt, nor her mind the memory of it.

She found herself regarding Will as he had been and, for the first time, as a new being entirely; as someone she could not permit herself to take for granted again. Everything that dawned on her heart now because of him, every feeling whose existence was owed to him, she must share with him. She would not risk anything happening to him without his knowing how she felt. She would not endure that again.

She got up and leaned over his quiet, motionless form, now warm and flushed with life, the gauze that enwrapped his chest traveling upwards slightly along with the beating of his heart. "I love you. Sleep, if you need to. I'll be here when you wake up."

* * *

**I know, there must be tons of stories like these around here, and better written by far. However, I had to try to make myself feel a little better about Will's death, because that was just heartbreaking, and I'm not quite sure I'm over it yet. Even though I've tried to keep it understated, in accordance with the show's brilliant writing, I've probably plunged into this with overblown, overager sentimentality and made everyone painfully OOC. You tell me (gently). Even though I wrote this first for myself, and for all its flaws, I sincerely hope you like it.**


End file.
